


universal constant

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4327998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Adam,” Ulf says, just to get Rousseau’s steady gaze out of the bottom of his glass, trained instead on him. He’s focused the way few people are. It feels like a lot, to have his attention on you, and Ulf usually likes it that way, likes feeling like the center of things. “We’re not even behind.”</p><p>“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Rousseau says shortly, and Ulf lets it go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	universal constant

The season winds itself down, and it’s both the most familiar thing in the world, and not. They make the playoffs, and everyone’s rejoicing, media all pointing to Travis, which is faintly ridiculous. That’s not to say Travis didn’t help them there, that his system isn’t the reason why they’re fifth seed rather than last year’s eighth, but Ulf dimly recalls making the playoffs last year. And the year before that. Ad infinitum, practically. People have short memories and quick fingers on the trigger.

Rousseau keeps coming around. There’s no real schedule to it, and it doesn’t happen on the road again, which is definitely for the best, but it does become a recurring theme. Ulf likes having sex with the same person over an extended period of time: you get to know what they like and dislike, so there’s less guesswork, not that exploration doesn’t have its own charms. The best sex he’s had, unsurprisingly, is with people he’d grown to know, generally in bed and out of it. Rousseau’s not exactly forthcoming in either sense, and Ulf can’t relax with him the way he has with others, but even so. Even so, Rousseau becomes familiar, a fixture. He doesn’t stay the night again, doesn’t linger, but the whiskey on Ulf’s liquor cart finally gets some use, and Rousseau even willing advises Ulf of his preferred brand, which definitely feels like progress.

Tampa Bay takes the fourth seed, only three points ahead of the Rangers, the cheapest home ice advantage any team got this year. Despite the way Ulf distanced himself from the Panthers the moment he got traded, he hasn’t overcome the slight distaste the Lightning evoke in him, probably the same way the Islanders feel about the Rangers, the little brother irritated that his older sibling is getting all the attention, the praise, the success. It may even be worse, since the Rangers had the laurels of Original Six, and Tampa only came in a year before the Panthers.

Regardless of the reason, he has a gut deep, irrational dislike of the Lightning, and would frankly love to roll over them, especially in aid of Travis’ mission to prove that fast clean play is what the Rangers needed to succeed.

The universe has other plans.

In game three his ankle twists awkwardly under him, and he knows, before the trainer’s running over, that it’s his season. Same ankle as last year’s playoff run, because there is clearly some cosmic mischief afoot, or, more likely, his left ankle’s given up after over 30 years of Ulf riding it hard. 

That it’s his season, and probably his career, too, one year left on his contract, and him not the kind of player to be able to negotiate for a no-move clause. That even if he starts next season on the roster, rather than down in Hartford, it’s a toss up whether he’ll stay up, get sent down or put on waivers, if he does last, and that no one’s going to be interested in picking up a 37 year old with a recurring injury. 

“That’s the season,” he tells Brookfield, back in medical. At least it’s a home game. Last year they were on the road, and the visitor’s dressing room isn’t exactly equipped for injuries. 

“Wiggle your toes for me,” Brookfield says with a frown. “Of your _left_ foot, Larsson.”

“You’re a sadist,” Ulf says, and Brookfield accepts it as his due with a simple shrug. 

Travis pops his head in at intermission.

“What’s the score?” Ulf asks. Brookfield won’t let him turn the TV on. Another reason he’s a sadist.

“No change,” Travis says. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like the universe is laughing at me,” Ulf says honestly.

Travis grimaces. “It has a tendency to do that,” he says. He looks over at Brookfield, who shakes his head minutely. Ulf doesn’t know why they’re trying subtlety, he already told Brookfield he knew it was his season.

Ulf doesn’t leave medical before the third period starts, but there isn’t much they can do for a sprain, unfortunately high, which confirms Ulf’s diagnosis. Brookfield releases him to the player’s lounge, at least, and he props his foot up and watches the rest of the game. The score’s still 2-1 when the horn goes, to match the series, and he can hear the team filter into the locker room, exuberant.

Rousseau comes in a few minutes later, the noise growing cacophonous, then dimming as the door shuts behind him. Ulf knows he gives as much of a shit, maybe even more of one, as the roster on whether they win, but in a celebrating room he sticks out, almost sucks the air from the room with his quiet presence, so it’s probably for the best he’s ducking out.

“Hey coach,” Ulf says.

“Travis says it’s a sprain,” Rousseau says quietly.

“High ankle,” Ulf says, and Rousseau winces slightly. “Yeah.”

“You need a ride?” Rousseau asks.

Ulf considers. His car’s stuck in the lot, at least for tonight, and he doesn’t relish cabbing at the minute. “Sure, thanks,” he says, and Rousseau nods tightly. “You want to go right now?” 

Rousseau nods again, and Ulf isn’t in the mood for a dozen hands slapping his shoulder, conciliatory, so they duck the locker room entirely, Ulf picking his way slowly behind Rousseau. 

Rousseau drives them back, manages without directions, for all that he’s only arrived in a cab, before. Could just drop him off, since it’s not like Ulf has to take stairs, and Ulf says so, but he uses Ulf’s spot in the underground parking, follows him upstairs, asks where Ulf’s painkillers are and by the time Ulf’s settled himself on the couch, he comes over with anti-inflammatories, an ice pack wrapped in a hand towel, a bottle of water. 

“Need anything else?” Rousseau asks.

“Orgasm’s a natural painkiller,” Ulf says, raising his eyebrows, and he expects Rousseau to give him a flat look, maybe tell him he’s got two working hands if he’s feeling a little less serious in the wake of the win. 

“Take the Advil first,” Rousseau says.

“Wait, really?” Ulf asks, before he realizes this is not a thing he should question, and obediently takes the pills. 

He has to say, this is an improvement on the last sprain.

He sits with management for the next game. Some players find it intimidating to share the box with them, and Ulf may have sympathized when he was younger, but they’re generally smart, interesting men, it’s probably best if Ulf reminds them he’s a human as well as a roster position in advance of next year, and everyone’s busy watching the game, the box as tense as a locker room before sudden death, with an added sense of hopelessness, since there’s nothing any of them can do to alter the outcome at this point. 

Ulf finds himself watching Rousseau during stoppages in play. He knows Rousseau is serious on the bench, he’s been serious all season and it’s the playoffs, but it isn’t until now that he really gets a look at him, used to Rousseau behind him, used to focusing on the ice. 

Rousseau looks more tense than any of them, than Travis, who has to prove something to Rangers management and Penguins management alike, that it’s a good idea to keep him and that it was a bad idea to get rid of him in the first place. Than Garza, who’s on the final year of his contract and close to the end of his career, enough that an empty ring finger might lead him to a team that can close. Than the kids facing their first playoff series and practically vibrating with the need to prove themselves. 

Rousseau looks like he’s a breath away from throwing up all game, independent of the score, though he was slightly less pale when they were up one as when they’re down one. That lead stretches until it snaps, the Lightning tie up the series, and Ulf debates going down to a room with a pall hanging over it. It isn’t a particularly tempting prospect.

Instead he heads home. He doesn’t want to, feels itchy under his suit, like he’d rather go out, pick up, something to shake the feeling free, but he knows he wouldn’t be feeling that way if he’d been on the ice for that defeat, and while he knows from experience that injuries often lead to sympathetic looks and conversational openings, he is also well aware that in a crowded bar your chances of being jostled aren’t low, and a what is typically a minor annoyance can be a setback to recovery, worst case. 

Still, he’s restless, and he texts Rousseau in the back of the cab, a quick _Want to come over?_. Rousseau’s more liable to say no than yes, he expects, and even if he does say yes, he’ll hardly be a cheerful presence, but Ulf knows the fastest way to shake the restlessness free, and it doesn’t hurt to ask. 

He’s genuinely surprised when he receives a _Yes_ , five minutes later. Perhaps even more surprised when his intercom goes, though it’s not like Rousseau to say he’ll be somewhere and then flake out. Ulf knows that instinctively at this point, needs no example.

He buzzes Rousseau up. Rousseau looks even worse in person, totally haggard, looking closer to forty than thirty. “You want a drink?” Ulf asks, then doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, goes to the drink cart and fixes him a scotch, figuring he’ll want the drink he drinks when they’ve embarrassed themselves, even if they didn’t quite, tonight. Still. 

He takes the glass over, then, on second thought, brings the bottle. He’s injured. It’s probably not a good idea for him to go back and forth across the room, and he knows Rousseau isn’t the type to take the initiative of refilling his drink himself. Too polite, that knee-jerk Canadian politeness that gets Ulf’s hackles up a little, because there’s no way of knowing whether it’s sincere thoughtfulness or ingrained habit. At least with Americans he knows what he’s getting.

“You’re not drinking?” Rousseau asks, frowning, and Ulf wasn’t actually planning on it, but it’s cruel to make a man drink alone when he needs to drown his sorrows. He half levers himself up before Rousseau’s up as well. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I have some beer in the fridge,” Ulf says, and Rousseau goes to fetch it for him.

Ulf’s kind of getting why people like relationships, here, because waiting for someone to bring something to you is much better than painfully limping across the room. Not that this is a relationship. He hopes the next time he’s injured he has family or Marc in town. Wherever that town may be. Probably not New York. 

Rousseau returns, hands Ulf his beer, takes a sip of his scotch. It’s not on the rocks, Ulf belatedly realizes, but Rousseau doesn’t seem to care. 

“Tough night,” Ulf says, finally.

Rousseau laughs humorlessly. 

They’re trading a game for a game. The Rangers had the first win, but Tampa’s got home ice advantage. Something will shake loose. 

“I know you missed me out there so much,” Ulf says.

“Don’t diss yourself,” Rousseau says, and Ulf quirks a smile, taps his bottle of beer against Rousseau’s glass. He shouldn’t be saying anything about himself, that’s what would take tonight from whatever it is, finding comfort, a date, of a kind, to Ulf using his sexual relationship with a figure of authority to improve his situation. In short, the kind of shit that would make him a Machiavellian bastard. He’s a lot of things people would disapprove of, but he’s not the type to have sex with someone for any reason other than that he wants to, so he drops it. Rousseau’s got zero control over next year’s roster anyway. 

“Want to talk about it?” Ulf asks. He’s really not expecting a yes there either.

“No,” Rousseau says. It’s almost a relief. Rousseau coming over shifts Ulf’s view of him a little — Rousseau wanting to talk through something might have him expire in shock. 

The other nights Rousseau nursed a bad loss, they watched sports, but Ulf doesn’t really see how turning some Western Conference game on would help. Distraction tends to be better, and he suspects that Rousseau would just watch a game and catalog where whoever is playing does something better than they did. It’s what Ulf does, when he’s dwelling, and Rousseau’s a lot more tactical about things than he is. He wonders if it was this bad after their first loss, Rousseau miserably watching some Western Conference game and thinking about the ways they needed to improve. 

“Adam,” Ulf says, just to get Rousseau’s steady gaze out of the bottom of his glass, trained instead on him. He’s focused the way few people are. It feels like a lot, to have his attention on you, and Ulf usually likes it that way, likes feeling like the center of things. “We’re not even behind.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Rousseau says shortly, and Ulf lets it go. 

“Want to watch a movie or something?” Ulf asks. He’s not even going to offer hockey. 

“Okay,” Rousseau says, and Ulf turns the TV onto some shallow comedy released a decade ago, figures it’ll serve as distraction, at least. When Rousseau’s drink gets low Ulf refills it, and when his beer’s empty, Rousseau goes to replace it, but other than that they just sit and watch. Neither of them are laughing: it’s trite slapstick humor, which Ulf’s never really found particularly amusing, and if Rousseau’s ever in the mood to laugh at a dumb comedy, he isn’t tonight. Still, he looks slightly less tense when the credits roll. Mostly, he just looks exhausted.

“Bed?” Ulf asks. Ulf feels tired just looking at him. He’d invited Rousseau over with the express intention of knocking the restlessness out the most tried and true way, by fucking it out of his system, but it’s disappeared, and Ulf wouldn’t even if Rousseau expressly asked, because he’s clearly not in the right place for it. 

Rousseau straightens up a little, like the suggestion that he may be tired has shaken the feeling right out of him. “No, I can —”

“Make some poor cabbie drive out to Scarsdale in the middle of the night?” Ulf asks, and when Rousseau opens his mouth again, “You can’t drive.” Even if he hadn’t been drinking, he’s strung out on the loss.

“I’ll take the couch,” Rousseau says.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ulf says, and with anyone else, lover or friend, he’d suggest they share, but perhaps that’s overstepping. “I’ll take it.” It’s a fine couch, as they go.

“You’re injured,” Rousseau says, gets this stubborn tense to his jaw Ulf sadly recognizes from Marc when he’s about to be difficult. 

“Okay, we’re both taking the bed,” Ulf says, making the executive decision, and Rousseau’s meaningfully silent, but whatever the meaning is, Ulf isn’t willing to bother to figure it out, right now. He’s tired. They both are.

He levers himself up. “I don’t hog the covers,” he says. “Or kick in my sleep. I’m the perfect gentleman, I promise.”

“I know,” Rousseau says quietly, and he gets up then, so Ulf doesn’t bother to examine that either.


End file.
